


Oya'karir

by pilotisms



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Courting Rituals, Din Djarin prizes family over all things, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mandalorian Culture, Pre-Mandalorian Season 1, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, The One Who Keeps Getting Away, War PTSD, found family trope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-01-29 13:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: You are Condor. A legend. A killer.“Ba'slanar,” you spit the command to leave in Mando’a, the words of his native tongue socking him in the jaw, “Jii.”For the first time, he freezes up.It won't be the last.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Mando/reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 39
Kudos: 804





	1. condor.

**Author's Note:**

> one episode in and i'm writing a fic? what else is new.

You always get away. 

Maybe it’s the years of guerrilla training from the men who lead you into battle after battle – or, maybe it’s because you’ve never been hunted down by a _Mandalorian_. 

You’ve got a high price on your head – highest that he’s seen in a while. You’ve pissed off some bad people in bad places, it seems. You’ve got no name, just a callsign given to you by the Rebel Alliance you once killed for. 

_Condor_. 

Your kill count is in the hundreds. 

(He’s heard whispers of your legacy before – a ghost who picks off the enemy from the sky. You’re never seen. Only heard, your call being a bright blue blaster bolt, then silence.)

You were hard to find. 

You yourself had been bounced around after the war, evading the still hopeful Imperial outposts built along the Outer Rim; you’d even began bounty hunting yourself, though outside the closely monitored bounds of the guild. 

He’s been tracking you for two cycles when he finally spots you.

You’ve always been good at maintaining a distance. From the way you move through the bustling Tatooine market, he can tell _you know he’s here for you. _You weave in and out of the grounds with a measure amount of grace, the worn out and modded up DH-447 strapped to your back like a reminder of your past.

The bounty puck strapped to his holster pings softly as he shoulders his way through the crowds – you bob into an alley, piercing eyes turning to spare him one warning glance as you slip away.

And so he follows.

He turns the corner to find you there, blaster queued and hissing; the long scope is pressed to the curve of his helmet. He can feel the heat. He can see your finger on the trigger. His lip curls, irritation bubbling there as he raises his hands slowly. 

Away from the bustle of the market, in this bright alley between mud huts, he can see only your eyes.

The rest of your face is hidden under a dark scarf. 

The puck pings louder.

“Why are you here?”  


“For you.”  


“Who sent you?”  


“Does it matter?”  


Your nose scrunches – it’s a snarl, he can tell. You jut the scope against his helmet a bit rougher now, backing him up against the wall. Your chin raises, defiant and confident.

“You wear a helmet,” you snap, the gentle roll of a Core World accent darting across your words, “Just like them.”

Stormtroopers, you mean. His back hits the wall and you yank the scarf from your face.

You’re beautiful; bright eyes and sophisticated features. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have assumed you to be some Senator’s daughter — maybe a princess of Naboo, maybe an angel like from the books his Mama read to him as a boy. But no. 

You are _Condor. _A _legend. A killer._

_“Ba'slanar,”_ you spit the command to leave in Mando’a, the words of his native tongue socking him in the jaw, _“Jii.”_  


For the first time, he freezes up.

You always get away. 

This time, because you _were _hunted by the Mandalorian.


	2. him.

You got away.

And for cycles, he thinks about it.

Part of him is bitter because of the missed bounty. If he’d managed to turn you over to the guild, alive, the pay off could have been enough for fuel and additional supplies for the clan. 

Another part of him is bitter for an entirely _different_ reason: plainly put, _you got away. From him. _And he’s the best in the parsec, he’s _a Mandalorian. _His damn honor won’t let him forget it. 

And _you _had spoken in Mando’a. The dialect wasn’t one he was familiar with – but with so many clans and houses scattered to the wind thanks to the Galactic Civil War, he was left wondering _who _you were. 

A Saxon? Viszla? Wren? Or maybe just… _aruetii_… _dar’manda. _An outsider. 

The war had changed things. Especially the state of Mandalorian culture and politics. He can’t help but feel like an _aruetii_ himself. He comes and goes. Wandering feels right. Being grounded, being back at the clan’s house? Feels wrong. Too comfortable. 

The bounty puck on his hip is new – Greef Carga had promised it be an easy job, a quick asset collection. 

When he enters the Mos Shuuta cantina, it doesn’t surprise him when he is met with a sort of silence that could snuff out a flame. Eyes fly across him, heavily armored and armed. For a moment, the sting of an anticipated shoot-out runs under his armor like a river of icy water. 

But, the band in the corner, after a long pause, strikes back up and he goes about ignoring the itch in his trigger finger in favor for a seat by the bar. 

And that’s when cycles-worth of thoughts sock him right in the face. 

You see him the exact moment he sees you. 

And you, The Condor perched upon a high stool and watching him with an icy gaze, don’t even _flinch. _

You just take a long sip from the iridescent blue drink in your hands, striking eyes sending him into a spiral of piqued intrigue and confusion. He can’t help but move closer, boots and armor tinkering as he does so. The bar hangs on his movements, nervous glances spared at your expense. 

And still. You sit tall. 

“_Su cuy'gar_,” you rasp. Your lashes flick downwards as you place your drink on the bar, all while he approaches with a measured level of caution, “Surprising.”  


_You’re still alive, _you supply in Mando’a, prompting an amused snarl to flicker beneath his helmet. 

_“Tion'jor?_” he counters, voice level with threatening sense of ferocity.   


_Why? _You have to snort. You turn in your stool, elbow on the bar. And you finally get a good look at him.

He’s tall, broad shouldered and intimidating. The baskar steel helmet upon his shoulders hides the Mandalorian’s intentions. You do however, as you size him up, note the puck on his hip – it’s glow is dimmer now. Not for you. For some other poor soul in this cantina. 

“_You_ let me go,” you chirp, “Sooner or later, your bounty will _not_ run.”  


You stand, hopping from the stool. Your boots kick up sand on the cantina floor. Tossing a handful of credits on the bar, you move to shoulder past him. 

He snags your wrist.

You narrow your eyes. 

His chest stirs. 

In a flash, the high pitch whine of a primed blaster meets his ears as you lean close, barrel of the gun pressed to the space beneath his ribs. It’s hot and he can feel the DL-44 pistol jab him a bit rougher as you gain the upper-hand.  


The bar hangs on the interaction. 

“You’re not here for me.”

“_Meg ti gar?” _  


_ Who are you? _

_“_Does it matter?”   


“How do you know Mando’a?”  


“You ask too many questions,” you spit as he drops your wrist and you drop the blaster, holstering it and sneering, “and _that _will kill you, as well, _utreekov_.”  


For the second time, you get away.

And he lets you. 


	3. two on two.

You thought, maybe, with the end of the war, that things would be different.

But, after looking over your shoulder for so long, you supposed that this new way of things was just how it would _always_ be – terrifyingly lonely and harrowingly isolating. 

Yet, here you are, being _followed_. Like always.

But, for once, you don’t feel so _alone_.

You duck around the winding stalls of the Yavin marketplace, muggy air sending frizzy tendrils of your hair creeping out of your headscarf like vines. Your nose and mouth are obscured, eyes darting about the stalls as you move gracefully – and though the man following you may not be as fast or as quiet, he still navigates light on his feet. 

You wonder how much that beskar armor _really_ weighs. 

He knows he’s falling into some sort of pattern – and not a healthy one. Not when, with every encounter, you consistently gain the upper-hand and hold various weapons to his vital organs… – _just like you are now._

He’d walked right into this one, quite literally, and now the dagger in your hands is pressed to the juncture between his shoulder plating and his helmet. Instantly, he recoils, swallowing thickly as he backs against the wall. He’d followed a bit too closely around a secluded corner, allowing you to pounce like a Nexu on a hunt. 

He grits his teeth, grunting as his back hits the stone structure of the Yavinese bakery behind him. The Mandalorian feels a bit stupid, really – but, that grip on the dagger is loose. And the look on your face is, as well. 

“Why are you following me, Mando?”  


Silence. 

You tilt your head, one hand moving to yank away the scarf from your mouth. Your eyes narrow behind thick lashes, expression muddied with curiosity and amusement. The dagger still remains at this throat. 

You leer as you speak.

“_Me'copaani?_” you ask, eyeing him up and down, “I see no bounty puck.”  


_ What do you want?  _

The words stir in his gut. 

_“Meg ti gar?” _he asks again, slowly this time, and make sure to watch the way your eyes flicker across his visor, “Which clan do you belong to?”  


He’s a bit taken aback when you scoff. Suddenly, the dagger is no longer at his neck – instead, it’s tucked into a sheath along your hip. Annoyance paints your features.

“No clan.”

The words are empty.

And with that, you start to walk away. 

It takes him a moment – but, when he suddenly pushes away the _thousand _questions has he mulling about in his head, he’s fast to follow. 

Promptly, though, you whirl about – as if you’d been expecting him to follow. The look on your face sends him staggering back three paces.

“Stop following me, _di'kut._”  


He raises his hands, head tilting as you narrow your eyes in a daring gesture. 

(You _are _beautiful. He wonders if _maybe _that’s why he’s been so keen on trying to find out who the kriff _you are._)

But, before he can say a word, his attention darts to a slow movement at the other end of the alley way. His silence only eggs you on, bringing you forward on your toes as you grip the sling of your DH-447. He doesn’t notice the way you raise your finger and jut it into his chest, mostly because he’s two busy realizing that the IG-series bounty droid looming in the alley behind you has a puck.

And it’s pinging for _you. _

He’s _fast. _

In one move, he plants his hand on your shoulder and moves you aside – the blaster on his hip is fired faster than a blink, nailing the IG-88 unit between the processor chip and optical socket. 

Your first instinct is to grip onto his cuirass, fingers looped in the curve of his chest-piece. You’re bracing yourself, eyes wild, when you realize there’s another source of pinging and you’re _staring right at it. _

In a flash, you’ve gripped the blaster pistol on his opposite thigh – you yank, spinning the pistol and lurching your arm beneath his cape. With two shots, the second IG-88 unit crumples to the muddy ground in a smoking heap.

His gloved hand secures itself along your waist as you stagger, stepping backwards and spinning to look at the other droid, short-circuiting in a puddle of rainwater. You look back at him, blinking slowly as you realize… _he was watching your back. _

He speaks then, terse and stern. “Time to go.”

You clear your throat and try to move past the realization that no one has minded a care for your life since the war. Not willingly, at least. 

(And certainly not from a man who’s blood runs the same hot, fighting color as your father’s.)

“Staabi,” you breathe, handing back his blaster. _Right. _Your thoughts are distant, up in the atmosphere – and he sees it.  


“_Jii_,” he urges, snagging your wrist and tugging you along, “Come on.”  


Maybe things _are_ different. 

Maybe they can _be_ different.


	4. face-to-face.

He didn’t expect this.

Not to be brushing shoulders with you in a crowded cantina on the edge of a Yavin space depot, post-shoot out, while you nurse a lilac colored drink and he drums his knuckles on the bar. 

For the first time, he’s thankful he let you slip away all those cycles ago. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here – and you wouldn’t be weighing your gratitude and next steps beside him. It’s a small victory; after all, with such a deep devotion to his own tribe, he can’t help but wonder how _alone _you must feel. 

_ No clan? No tribe? No home?  _

You’re not used to… _not running. _But, the Mandalorian’s insistence on laying low for a couple more hours before jetting had been enough to convince you. 

(After watching your back? He could convince you of anything, you’re sure, with a simple wave of his hand – that’s a difficult feeling to grapple with after not tying yourself to any loyalties or allegiances for the last few months.)

“Why are they gunning after you?” he finally breathes, leaning back on his heels and taking a moment to eye you critically, “You got a warrant or something? Dip outta the Rebellion early?”

You narrow your eyes.

Then, you take a particularly long sip of your drink.

And speak. 

“I’ve got a confirmed kill count of 178,” you raise a finger, voice measure with a calculated level of absence, “_Eight_ of which include high-ranking Imperial personnel.”  


He waits. A blank visor stares back at you. 

You hate that you can’t read him.

“There are _still_ Imperial loyalists out there – ones that want to secure revenge for their fallen _comrades,” _you continue after a moment of tension, filled with your critically narrowed eyes, “And one client in particular has been adamant about my head on a spike.”  


“Who?”  


“No idea,” you shrug, tone bitten through with attitude, “Next time, when I’m being shot at, I’ll make sure to _ask _–”  


He scoffs; the sound is a harsh wheeze through his helmet’s respirator. It makes you quirk a little bit of a grin. His head lols as he looks away, leaning on his elbow and bracing himself against the bar. You chase his orbit, leaning in and narrowing your eyes. 

Your nostrils flare a bit as you speak.

“…Why do you care, huh, _di’kut?”_  


Beneath his helmet, his brow quirk at the insult hurled his way in Mando’a. He tilts his head, words bounding with amusement. “_Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod?”_

_ You looking to get hit, huh?  _

The jest spurs a laugh from your chest. “_Ret.” _

_Maybe_.

The exchange feels like a bit childish – like two kids play-fighting, teeth barred but full of affectionate. You’re not sure where this comfort came from. He’s not sure either. 

You remind yourself to stay on edge, ready to cut and run. He tries to keep himself level, remind himself he’s coaxing a feral Nexu to his hand. 

“You should come with me.”  


You blink at him once, then twice. Then once more.

“… With you?”  


It’s not the idea of going, no, it’s the idea of going with _him _that knocks your composure off balance. 

The blank expression of his helmet stares back at you. You wonder if you stare really hard, _really hard, _you could maybe see the shadow of his mouth in the dark glass there. But, the visor gives no leeway. His features are hidden completely. 

For the first time, you wonder what the Mandalorian looks like.

(He’s thankful for the helmet in moments like this – he’s openly admiring you, all spitfire and fury tampered down into a manageable hearth-fire. Still, you burn bright, but with a welcome warmth that traps him in.)

“You’re competent, smart, and,” he says finally, breaking his gaze from the pretty slope of your nose to the back of the bar, “You’re on the run. Lucky for you, I know plenty of places to hide.”  


You didn’t expect this. 

Not to be following him on his ship, Razor Crest, and leaving that Yavin space-depot in the dust, coordinates set for the enclave and place he hopes you’ll maybe learn to call home. 


	5. departure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> been a bit. have some condor-din dialogue and some background on our favorite sniper.

Feels good to get away from Yavin. 

For a long time, you’d remained tethered to that planet and its many moons — it was, for a while, the _only way_ you’d been able to duck out on the few hits hanging over your head. Shuttles to and from the small moons were cheap enough, and they kept you moving. 

Never in one place for longer than a week.

When credits dried up, you’d taken work managing bounties outside of the Guild for locals who couldn’t afford the extravagant rates that the well-known union of bounty hunters touted — though the work had landed you in hot water and earned you two separate blaster bolts to the back, it kept you going. Fed. Living hostel to hostel. 

There were a few times you’d taken off planetside in favor of Tattooine. Even ducked to Nal Hutta a few months back. When things needed to cool off, you would throw the last of your credits into a ride off-world and lay low for a couple of weeks.  


For some reason, though, you always came back to Yavin. 

These last three weeks, you’ve been stuck here on the fifth moon... No credits, no jobs, and too many hunters after your hide.

Two years earlier, if you’d been told you’d still be stuck on that _humid, _muddy planet and its damn moons after the end of your deployment with the Rebel Alliance, you would have _laughed. _

Now, as you watch the green sphere shrink into the inky black void of space from the cockpit of the _Razor Crest, _you nearly do. 

You can thank the armored man before you for that. Not _yet_, per say. But, maybe soon. You still weren’t completely _sure _of his motives. 

Trust doesn’t come easy — not with the state of the galaxy.

The Mandalorian in the pilot’s seat has an uncanny sense of stillness to him. Space is quiet, and as the engines hum and the hyperdrive primes itself deep within the belly of the ship, you _watch _the way his gloved fingers pluck in coordinates to a planet you recognize nearly immediately.

“_Navarro?” _you nearly spit.  


“You know it?”  


Your jaw tightens with a sudden flare of distrust — if the Mandalorian somehow _saw _the flash of volatile hesitation in your features, he gave no indication. Instead, he kept his visor forward, hands flicking the hyperdrive into gear and sending the ship into a perpetual state of un-moving speed.

Streaks of light bounce off the hull and illuminate the features of your face. The Mandalorian turns in his chair, intrigued by your silence, and comes face to face with a blaster pistol.

“Care to tell me why you’re bringing me to an old_ Imperial stronghold?”_  


His shoulders square themselves off. His hands lay still on his thighs. The helmet stares back at you unblinking — but, you don’t move. You wait, posed like a true hunter; and Din Djarin realizes that you _still _don’t trust him.

... He can say the same about you.

“My people —”  


There’s a pause. 

“_Our people,” _he corrects himself patiently, “Live there. A covert. Hidden from what remains of Empire influence.”  


“I am _not_ one of your people,” you bite, satisfied enough with the answer that you drop the sight on the blaster and shove it bitterly into its holster, “Best you get that through your thick helmet.”  


You’re up, then, moving through the cockpit doors and down the ladder leading to the lower level of the pre-Empire era ship. Almost immediately, you can hear the heavy trod of boots follow you. 

“I don’t think you understand —”  


You scoff, fingers moving to the weapons cache control adjacent the cabinet embedded in the ship’s paneling. Pouring your flash of irritation into curiosity, you flick a button on the panel and watch as the doors open and display a whole _rack _of well-worn but well-taken care of blasters and tools.

“Oh?” you chirp, head tilting and hands moving almost immediately to an A180 sniper on the wall, “Please, _explain, _Mando.”  


There’s a garbled sound of frustration that meets your ears when you raise the long barrel and pin him in his spot at the foot of the ladder — the high pass from his vocalizer stamps out the sound and you _swear _you can hear a whisper of a curse. Your posture is practiced. He’s reminded _who you are. _The mere glimpse this moment gives... 

He isn’t surprised you have a quarter of a million credits on your head.

You’re a killer. To those old Imperial goons, you’re the boogeyman. You were during the war and you still are now.

“Put that _back_,” he grunts, moving past you and past the vision of the Condor; he’s rough when he snatches the weapon from your hands, “You have your _own_ —”  


“You’re not doing a very good job _explaining,” _you snap, leaning back and proceeding to elbow the panel on the wall, sending the doors to the cache closed right before the armored silhouette can reach back and hang up the sniper blaster.   


It’s nearly comical the way his shoulders fall in exasperation. His grip tightens on the weapon.

“You’re being —”  


_“Difficult?”_ a tilt of your head, “Says the one insisting I be better off letting him take me to an Imperial outpost...”  


It’s then that he steps forward, crowding your defiance in an attempt to stifle it; but, all the Mandalorian manages to achieve is a close enough distance for you to snatch the sniper rifle from his gloved grip once more. 

You flip it easily in your hands. The space between you is tight, yet you remain unmoved and unbothered as your eyes flick to his visor _once... _

Then you proceed to screw the barrel of the rifle off, look down the uneven and dented cylinder, pop it against the ladder behind you with a solid _clang_ before latching the barrel back onto the weapon. You weigh it in your hands once before tossing it in the air. 

The Mandalorian catches it with ease. 

“It’ll fire accurately now,” you offer, leaning back against the wall and rooting your gaze to his helmet again, “... You’re _welcome_.”   


The fact you’d been able to pinpoint the misaligned barrel... A problem that had been plaguing the retired sniper blaster for _months now..._

Beneath his helmet, Din Djarin can feel himself wading through the thick emotion of _irritation. _It’s what you can read in his posture. Hidden from your view, though, is the intrigue painting his face. Awe, even. Muddled with a bit of longing. 

The burst of air that crackles through his vocalizer is all you hear when he leans around you to open the stash and place the A180 back where it belongs. It’s a sigh. 

“Thank you,” it’s almost pained. There’s a pause, and then his voice comes out softer than before, “Will you let me speak?”

You wave your hand, gesturing for him to have the floor.

“... I’ve never met another Mandalorian outside the Covert before.”

There’s something _somber _about that. Or, at least the way it sounds coming from the Mandalorian’s mouth. It draws a wince to your features — the same sort of sadness he feels yanks the reigns of your heartstrings. The ache is mournful.

"We’re few and far between, now.”

A quiet confession. 

He remains unmoved. Still. Like there’s no man within the armor at all. 

It feels good to leave Yavin... But now, faced with the lingering uncertainty of creed you’ve long since ceased practice... You’re left thinking about how things were before the war. Your mother, your clan, your home. Before Clan Saxon ruined what was. It _hurts _to remember it. 

Somehow, buried beneath the horrors of the war, _this_ hurt feels fresh. Like the skim of a blaster bolt across your heart.

Part of you wants to hightail it back to what you know: Yavin. Loneliness. Running.

If it wasn’t so terrible, you might have laughed.


End file.
